


Playlist

by plumtrees



Series: C(4,2) = 6 [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mixtape, Music, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Secret Crush, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: Music has been Matsukawa’s defense mechanism since he’d gotten his first MP3 player. It was small, a hand-me-down from his brother, its buttons worn from use, no longer clicking when pressed, but still responsive. He’d worn earphones for as long as he was allowed, and he thinks every song in his playlist since then has some sort of memory attached to it: Ayaka’sWhyfor the days when it rained, Aqua Timez’Rainbowfor that day he wanted to cheer himself up after getting a bad grade.Five headset replacements and two graduations later, he has an iPhone in his pocket and a headset he saved up six long months for settled around his neck, a thousand songs for a thousand memories, and a playlist just for Oikawa Tooru.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I cheated so much with this for one it's way past 2k (i rly don't care at this point huhu) and haha I used 2 prompts again (very loosely): "you're the prettiest, smartest captain of the team. i love you more than being seventeen." and "I think it would be interesting to see matsukawa try to seduce oikawa for once!"
> 
> (it's not really matsu seducing oikawa more like a painfully slow and awkward courtship lol)
> 
> see end notes for the playlist used for this entire fic

_Oh kids are always honest 'cause they don't think their ever gonna die_

_You're the prettiest, smartest captain of the t—_

Without warning, the noise of the outside interrupts the song, wind whooshing past his ears and the chatter of his classmates melding with the voice of Julian Casablancas still playing in his left ear. He slides open one eye, and Oikawa’s smiling face comes into focus.

He reaches up to grab his wrist, thumb pressing into the thick vein in warning. Oikawa lets go, and the other half of his headphones snaps back against the side of his face. Ow.

“Keep doing that and they’ll break.” He growls, though the effect is ruined when he yawns. Oikawa laughs, or so he thinks. He can’t really hear anything with these on. He pauses the song, carefully slides the headphones off, and the sounds he’d just been trying to drown out fill his ears, a soft murmur of inconsequential conversation and the ambient sounds of autumn rain falling just outside the window. They slip by slowly, like his own hearing is acclimating, groggy with the first taste of waking.

“—going to eat lunch?”

Matsukawa blinks, looks up. “What?”

Oikawa quirks an eyebrow at him with exasperation, hands propped up on his hips. Matsukawa doesn’t know what to think about the fact that he already knows what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.

He doesn’t get to find out if he’s right, because Hanamaki slides the classroom door open and screeches about the cafeteria being out of pastries.

 

-

 

He remembers the day they met, Oikawa standing in front of a crowd of seniors, a first year already leagues away from his own upperclassmen, introducing himself with a voice still cracking. _Oikawa Tooru. Setter. From Kitagawa Daichi High School. My dream is to go to Nationals. Also! Be the starting setter for the National Team!_

Matsukawa thought he looked beautiful then: eyes shining with focus, a story hidden in the determined line of his lips. He looked regal. He looked sure. He shone with the contentment of a man who has found his life’s purpose.

(Matsukawa will soon learn that Oikawa is most beautiful when he is like this: poised at the edge of the court with a ball held easily in one hand, the machinations of his mind hidden through the relaxed muscles of his face, his body bowing in a practiced arc before snapping forward and slamming the ball down _hard_ )

Matsukawa isn’t jealous, he tells himself, but all he has are fragments of a future he’s trying to make sense of while Oikawa is already facing his dreams, chasing after them with the fervor of a child eager to grow up.

It’s a masochistic sort of glee, maybe. Kind of like watching other people succeed and being happy for them, all while your own life is left in shambles somewhere behind you. He silences out his nagging thoughts with the comforting feel of his headphones secured softly over his head, instruments and voices singing to him and fueling his imagination, playing as some sort of soundtrack of his life as he admires Oikawa’s glow from afar.

_Tell me about the dream you created that you wouldn’t trade for the world_

_This harmony you’re singing aloud._

 

-

 

At least once a week he passes by the convenience store and buys milk bread.

He buys a cream puff too, and a Pon de Ring (because how can anyone get agedashi tofu in a convenience store, and Iwaizumi’s a nice enough person to appreciate anything anyway), just to cover up his trail. Wordlessly, he hands them out during morning break, to a chorus of enthusiastic gratitude and _Mattsun’s so generous_.

Sometimes he feels like the child his older brother teases him to be, tossing his crush’s favorite food at them hoping that it’ll be enough, that he might actually get his message across without saying it. He knows it won’t. Oikawa’s not a dog, after all. But it’s still nice, the butterflies fluttering inside his stomach when he catches the sparkle in his eyes, that endearing toothy grin as Oikawa rips the snack open and echoes another melodious thanks before biting into it.

_Your smile was like a textbook description of this world._

 

-

 

Music has been his defense mechanism since he’d gotten his first MP3 player. It was small, a hand-me-down from his brother, its buttons worn from use, no longer clicking when pressed, but still responsive. He’d worn earphones for as long as he was allowed, and he thinks every song in his playlist since then has some sort of memory attached to it: Ayaka’s _Why_  for the days when it rained, Aqua Timez’ _Rainbow_  for that day he wanted to cheer himself up after getting a bad grade.

Five headset replacements and two graduations later, he has an iPhone in his pocket and a headset he saved up six long months for settled around his neck, a thousand songs for a thousand memories, and a playlist just for Oikawa Tooru. 

 

-

 

Matsukawa thinks it’s unfair that someone, anyone, has to bear the responsibility that Oikawa is currently being crushed under.

It’s different when he’s off-court, he knows. Everything always seems more visible when you’re not stepping foot inside those white lines, feeling the pressure suffocate you until you can barely even see past what’s in front of you. He doesn’t blame anyone for it, knows it’s no use blaming _himself_ either, but words can’t describe the searing failure that spread through him when he saw the ball bounce off of Oikawa’s wrists, then out of the court, far from anyone’s reach, while he stood there unable to do anything.

Oikawa isn’t even cracking, even when Iwaizumi stood with his head down as years of bitter tears streamed down his face, Oikawa remained firm. Standing tall like his dream hasn’t just been crushed before his very eyes. Matsukawa knows why he has to be, he just wishes he didn’t have to, because if the pain of holding it in was this much for him, he can only imagine what Oikawa must be feeling.

The second they’re seated on the bus, he rips out his phone, his headphones, nearly tangling up the wires in his haste to get them on. Beside him, Oikawa has his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, but he flinches when Matsukawa brings his spare headset down around his ears, plugging them into his splitter. Oikawa doesn’t make a fuss, but Matsukawa wouldn’t really know, considering he’s not even looking at him.

The first few notes sweep over them. He thinks he hears a gasp in the space where the music softened briefly, and when the lyrics come up, Oikawa chokes on a sob beside him.

Matsukawa still doesn’t look at him, but he takes his hand, slides fingers between Oikawa’s rough, bandaged, calloused ones, and squeezes.

_Let it all out, let it all out._

_No need to pretend you're so strong._

 

-

 

Winter arrives like a somber messenger, carrying with him his cold winds and thick snow and a gentle reminder that he doesn’t have much time left.

He sighs and pushes away the mounds of reviewers he’d accumulated over the weeks: old notes from freshman year, mock entrance exams from the internet, papers with writing barely even legible. Concentrating is much harder today than it usually is, and Matsukawa won’t even fool himself into thinking he doesn’t know why.

Tucked in one of the drawers of his desk is a CD, clear and unmarked and locked in a crystal case with a sticker for a tracklist in Matsukawa’s handwriting, along with a pamphlet with Japanese translations to the one English and Korean song in the disc. It’s been haunting him for weeks, been haunting him since the day he took Oikawa’s hand in a crowded bus and listened to Fukuhara Miho’s entire album until they arrived at the ramen place, and Oikawa had let go, slid the headphones off, fixed his hair, and smiled at him, a _thanks_ soft on his lips.

Matsukawa thinks that if he only had just a little more courage to spare, he’d have said it then. Three syllables. Just three syllables.

Oikawa had sat there, waiting, perhaps for him to edge out of the seat so he can get out too, but Matsukawa is almost sure there was more in his eyes than just that, and Matsukawa wants so badly to know what he wants to say, or what he wants to hear, or what he wants from him.

But like the aftermath of their last official match, Oikawa looks down, walks away, defeated, and Matsukawa does nothing.

_When I touched you, you touched me back—as if in response_

_We couldn’t say a thing. What was it we couldn’t say?_

 

-

 

Just a few months later, the letters come pouring in one after the other, rejection, acceptance, and everything else in between, and the first thing he does is check the group chat. He and Hanamaki both get in 1 of the 3 universities they applied in together, but out of the 2 universities that accepted him, Matsukawa knows the other one has a better IT program. Iwaizumi gets in a university in Ibaraki, to the surprise of no one.

What _does_ surprise is Oikawa’s announcement that he’ll go into the same university as Iwaizumi, on a sports scholarship. He’d kept this fact secret apparently, only choosing to reveal it right after Iwaizumi blurted out the good news about getting accepted in Tsukuba. Matsukawa finds it unbelievable that just a week ago they were drunk off their asses crying about the prospect of being separated.

Meanwhile, here he is, still in his room, still holding the acceptance letter for his first choice of university. There is something he told himself he’d do, should he actually get in. He asked it at the temple, clasped his hands after tossing in those coins. _Give me a sign,_ he said,  _if I get into Tohoku Uni, I’ll do it_.

And lo and behold he gets a fucking red neon sign delivered right on his doorstep. Wow, even the gods are tired of this stupid drama he’s dragging on.

He reaches for his desk drawer and pulls it open. The CD is still there, the same spot it’s been all these months, waiting for him to scrape up enough courage to even pick it up.

Finally, he does.

 

-

 

The next day, he gathers Iwaizumi and Hanamaki on the landing of the staircase and asks them to go on home without them, that he and Oikawa need to talk about something. Hanamaki doesn’t even bother to hide the smirk as he salutes his affirmative. Iwaizumi side-eyes him severely, but nods, like he’s finished assessing him and liked what he found. Good thing too, because he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t have Iwaizumi’s approval, then this next step is only infinitely much harder.

After dismissal, he waits outside Oikawa’s classroom, waits for every single one of Oikawa’s other classmates to leave before entering, keeping his head down even when Oikawa calls out _Mattsun?_  in confusion as he closes the door behind him.

Oikawa’s just finished putting away the cleaning materials, and Matsukawa sets the CD down on the desk between them.

“What’s that?”

“A mixtape.” He answers, voice threatening to clog up in his throat with every shaky syllable. “I made it. There are songs in other languages, but there’s a translation in there.”

He had hoped that would be it. Give Oikawa the CD and leave, deal with the fallout tomorrow (or later), but before he can even turn around, Oikawa has a hand around his wrist, the other already delicately closed around the crystal case like it’ll break if he holds any more firmly.

There’s something unreadable in his gaze as he looks it over, growing more guarded as he reads the tracklist. Matsukawa already feels the sweat breaking out on his palms.

Then, Oikawa looks up at him.

“You got your splitters with you?”

 

-

 

They stay there, sat in the corner behind empty chairs and tables, tied together by Matsukawa’s CD player, backlit by the pink and orange beams filtering through the windows. The classroom key is safe in Oikawa’s pocket, the advantages of being class representative.

Matsukawa does nothing but fidget through the first two songs, and then _Sparkle_  plays and he has no hope of hiding what this mixtape is really for.

But even then, Oikawa says nothing, just keeps his eyes closed, letting the song wash over them like it did on that day in the bus. Only this time there’s an awkward, unbreachable space between them. More songs come, one after the other, all talking about the same damn thing: Matsukawa’s admiration, his desire, his long-time attraction to this one beautiful, perfect, amazing person sitting right beside him. He almost flinches when Oikawa’s hand lifts, but all it does is carefully slip the headphones off one ear, reaching out to gently do the same for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

Matsukawa unfreezes then, locked joints buckling, limbs sagging to the floor.

“There was just so much.” Matsukawa starts, swallows. “We didn’t have time.”

“How long ago?”

Matsukawa stares at the wall, as if it can give him answers. Oikawa remains patient and curious at his side. All the while Satoshi Ohno croons in his ear: _In the far past, the dreams you left behind_.

“When the year started, maybe.” he finally says, though he really isn’t even sure. “You had a girlfriend then though, and it didn’t seem right to confess so soon after you broke up.”

Convenient excuses, he knows, but Oikawa only grunts. A silent _Oh. Well that’s fair_.

 _Be With You_ ’s last guitar note fades out, leaving them in silence. Then, another, clearer piano note rings out. Oikawa’s head lifts from the wall, eyes widening in recognition when Kwon Jiyong’s voice comes on.

He unfolds the translation booklet that Matsukawa painstakingly wrote himself. Only the first and last songs are in other languages, and as Oikawa’s eyes finishes flitting across the page for _Last Dance_ , he leans back, head angling to smile at him.

He doesn’t know what happens but suddenly he’s being pulled to his feet by the wires of his headphones. He stands straight, shocked still when Oikawa crowds into his space, arms wound tight around his waist like he’ll die if he lets go.

Oikawa is just barely shorter than him, not even 4 centimeters difference. Their cheeks press nicely together when Oikawa rests his chin on his shoulder, his smile pressing into the thin fabric of his shirt.

Dong Youngbae chimes in by the time Matsukawa reaches up to awkwardly drape his arms around Oikawa, hands resting on the sharp points of his shoulder blades. Oikawa’s swaying them left to right, a slow, tentative dance.

“You’re so dramatic.” Oikawa murmurs, almost lost in the echo of the music locking them in this place, this moment. “It’s just college. Not the end of the world.”

In any other situation, Matsukawa would have rolled his eyes. The nerve of Oikawa Tooru of all people calling someone else dramatic. As it is, he can only scoff into Oikawa’s hair. It smells like mint, like the fresh leaves of spring.

“You’ll be in Ibaraki in a few months. What will I have then?”

“We have LINE. We have Skype. We have the shinkansen.” Oikawa lists, tone scolding. “We’ll still have all the time in the world, idiot.”

Matsukawa lowers his gaze, subtly shifting so that his arms wrap around Oikawa’s shoulders, fingers unconsciously weaving into his hair. “Will it even be worth all the effort though? You can just go meet new people in Tsukuba.”

Oikawa hums, the breath of it tickling his neck. “Why don’t _you_ just date someone here in Sendai then? Makki?”

“Because he’s not you.” He answers immediately, faster than Oikawa even finishes his question, head turning to bury his face into Oikawa’s hair, if only to hide how bad it’s burning in embarrassment. “You’re the only one I want.”

He stops then, the song continues to play, but it sounds like it’s coming from a faraway sound system, rather than from 6000yen headphones clipped to one ear. Oikawa pulls back slightly, looking at him, and this time he can see clearly: the curiosity, the glow of something soft and warm, something that almost looks like—

“You’re the only one I—” his voice gets pathetically small, a persistent itch crawling up his throat. Oikawa leans just that bit closer, eyes impossibly large. Have they always been this big? He’s close enough that Matsukawa can practically count each individual eyelash, feels the phantom drag against his skin as Oikawa’s lids flutter.

“I love.” He breathes out, in a mess of vowels and consonants given a voice. “I love you.” He repeats steadily, because those words are probably the truest, surest thing in his whole life, and like hell is he going to half-ass it.

Oikawa chuckles, and Matsukawa isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the setting sun but his eyes are brighter beneath the crescents of his squinting smile.

“Mattsun,” he starts, gently, and Matsukawa steels his heart for the rejection he’s long since known will come.

“This has all been really sweet.” he says and Matsukawa’s lips thin out, his body tensing before Oikawa’s. He makes a soft, surprised sound, looking up at him, as their movements slow, then cease.

Matsukawa sighs. “You don’t have to let me down gen—”

He doesn’t even get to finish. Oikawa’s mouth is on his, and fuck it if he planned this because just then the drumbeat rolls, the beat drops, and the last repeat of the chorus rings in their ears, loud and powerful as it takes his breath away alongside Oikawa’s kiss.

And just as soon as it happens, it’s over. It doesn’t last long enough. When he opens his eyes, Oikawa has their foreheads pressed together, breathing into his space, his eyes shut, brows meeting in irritation.

“It’s not fair. You got a head start.” Oikawa whines. “I don’t exactly know how I feel about you yet, but you’re important to me.”

Matsukawa wants to reach out and stroke Oikawa’s face, iron out the upset lines that bury deep into his skin, but his body is numb, trembling with the uncertainty of their limbo.

“You won’t lose me if you reject me outright you know. Just putting that out there.”

Oikawa shakes his head. “I know. But I don’t want to. I want to make this work. Right now, I may not love you the way you want me to, but I think I can, if we give this time.” He opens his eyes, rolls them up to meet his. “Won’t you let me try?”

His throat goes dry, even as he continues to swallow. Never in his wildest dreams did he think Oikawa will ever look at him like this, like he holds Oikawa’s heart in his hands and Oikawa’s staring up at him, silently begging him to keep it safe.

And Matsukawa can do nothing but stare back. Stare back and nod, and feel his heart soar as those pink lips curved into a content smile.

Matsukawa feels his lips twitch into a mirror of that expression. There are no more words. He reaches around and slides the cup of the headphone over Oikawa’s other ear, does the same for his own, and suddenly there’s nothing but the music and Oikawa and this dance.

He slides down the length of his sides until he reaches his waist. Oikawa giggles, something he feels more than he hears, tiny little bursts of breath over his lips as they begin to sway to the piano and the fading wisps of Choi Seunghyun’s voice.

_Yesterday night when I_

_Held hands with you and danced_

_With your radiantly glowing and_

_Beautiful_

_One last smile._

**Author's Note:**

> Actual playlist/mixtape:  
> 1\. Evening Sun - The Strokes  
> 2\. Bud - NICO Touches the Walls  
> 3\. Sparkle - RADWIMPS  
> 4\. My Heart Draws a Dream - L'Arc-en-Ciel  
> 5\. Let it Out - Miho Fukuhara  
> 6\. Aria - BUMP OF CHICKEN  
> 7\. Be With You - Arashi  
> 8\. Last Dance - BIGBANG  
> [plumtreeforest.tumblr.com](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com)
> 
> EDIT!: [MY LOVELY FRIEND MADE ART FOR THIS HERE UWU IMMA CRY](http://n3ongold3n.tumblr.com/post/155509175636/it-wasnt-the-plan-for-tonight-but-happened-anyway)


End file.
